


Les Muguet des Farouche

by Cascaper



Series: Fools and Lovers [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, Gen, The most important, also Gosetsu, asahi - Freeform, brief mentions of Hien, featuring some grating at best and v hurtful at worst parenting, tsuyu - Freeform, well ok one Lalafell character but she is vERY IMPORTANT U GUISE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper
Summary: Gasp- can it be? But yes it can! A whole new crop of tales about our lovesick dhalmel Livorette, her beloved popoto bride-to-be Gogoha, and her long-suffering younger sister Sélysette. Some of them are connected. Some are not. But they Art All Here, and we are going to recount the Deeds of many a Day...Thanks to eremiss on tumblr for helping me come up with the title!





	1. Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louderthanthedj](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=louderthanthedj).
**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... when the voidsent drives. As the bastardized saying goes. 
> 
> POV: Sélysette  
Timeline: Sély is ten, Livorette fourteen, so... this one's about seven or eight years prior to the present. Give or take a few moons.

Sélysette wishes her sister would hurry up.

Livorette had gone up to bathe at around five. Now it's nearly half-past six. Dinner is in another bell, and Sély desperately wants to wash the day's sweat away before it's time to put on her dinner things. But for the moment she must wait in the bedroom, altogether _ridden_ with impatience and boredom. 

She is glad Mama cannot see her now, sprawled across the bed, overheated and slightly drowsy. Only the barest hint of a breeze comes through the window, though it is thrown as wide as it will go. Even the birds are too hot to sing. How can Livy be so selfish? She's not that much bigger than Sély; she doesn't need so very much more water. Surely she's bathed enough by now...

It is a difficult operation to sit upright, but Sély manages it at last. She puts her toes to the floor and begins to stand up—only to retract them right back onto the bed when she feels something scrunch under her stockinged foot. "What in the _world_," she gasps, and then peers over the edge at the mystery object.

A list, as it turns out. In her sister's handwriting.

_An incomplete list of the Loves of one Livorette Farouche, age 14_

~_Celestine Beaumont_. A brief, incomprehensible attraction begun by her accidental bestowment of a kiss on the lips where she ought to have gone for the cheek. Swiftly ended upon our next real visit, in which I was reminded just how annoying she could be.

~_Miss Marie_. A honey-haired baker’s daughter with a pleasant manner and a perpetual blush on her rounded cheeks. Ended when she wed a rival baker’s son in the next town over, and I never saw her again. The fact that it happened a mere fortnight after I confessed my affection was… discouraging. (And she was kind about it, so gentle and kind that it hurt.)

~_Hatheburg the Highlander_. Blue-eyed and bold, with two golden stars painted on her left cheek. Of course her true surname could not have been “the Highlander,” but I never did find out what it really was. This despite the fact that her mistress seemed to keep sending her on missions that led right through our back yard. I think she saw something of the longing in my glances, else why would she keep stopping to chat at the end of the garden? In the evening, with the sunset glowing peach and apricot through the trees..? In the end, she granted me exactly one kiss, “just because you look like you’ll die without it. Hang in there, kid.” And then she was gone.

~_D’ghodri_. A brunette Miqo’te with a carnival troupe who came to the city last year for All Saints Wake. I learned her name when one of the other members announced to the area at large that “the lovely D’ghodri” was needed elsewhere (and that the other fellow would fill the post til she could return). I played the games every single day for the whole rest of the festival, just to hear her calling out in her melodical voice. “Come one come all to the Carnival!” and things of that nature. I didn’t think she’d have call to notice me, but then—on the last night—she did.

“Why miss, aren’t you tired of us yet?” she asked, and smiled at me, and I almost swallowed my tongue. “At this rate you could almost be one of us!”

And her eyes shone green in the lamplight, and I could feel myself falling as from a great height even while my feet stayed on the ground. “One of you?” I repeated, dumbly.

“You heard me right.” She winked. “Here, give it a try.”

She asked me to shout the line about the Carnival, but my voice gave out, and then Sély came up to us saying we had to go home. I dreamed of her for two weeks afterward.

~_Tetenu. _Oh, Tetenu. Though you only visited us once or twice, your silvery eyes and your luminous smile shall for ever be engraved upon my poor heart… Would that I were smaller, that you might see me as I saw you…! But alas, I am a full-hearted lover trapped in the form of a broomstick topped with a brilliant pink mop, and I do begin to think no woman will ever glance at me more than twice. Fair, fairest Tetenu…!

The last words are followed by a few furiously scribbled-out blotches, and a trio of clear round stains. Sély can guess what those might be- and she knows what she now needs to do.

* * *

“Livy… Livorette? Are you still in there?” Sély knocks at the bathroom door.

For answer she gets only a groan. And, as an afterthought, “Go away.” 

Sély sighs. “You’ve been in there for over a bell by now. I want to use the bath too.” No response. “That’s it, I’m coming in.”

She opens the door to a room blanketed in condensation. There’s a steam patch at the top of the mirror; the inner handle of the door leaves her hand damp. Rounding the half wall that secludes the tub from the rest of the room, she finds her sister submerged to the chin, her head tipped back against the porcelain.

“Sélyyyy…” Livy groans, eyes closed. “Can’t you see I’m trying to drown myself? Death is a private thing, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sély says dryly. “Though I’m also sure your wilted spirits will recover. They always have before.”

Livy throws an arm over her face. “Not this time. This is the last of me. A heart can only break so often before it stops being able to mend.”

Sély pauses. “Well, that can’t be true. Otherwise, Mama would have expired long ago.” When that gets a giggle, she goes on. “Anyway, you’re only fourteen. Whoever heard of dying from a broken heart at fourteen?”

Livy’s half-smile disappears; she sinks lower in the water. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Nonsense.” Sély tries to speak with a bracing sort of tone. “Sixteen or seventeen maybe, but not now. You’ve got a good few years in that heart yet.”

Silence. Sély tries again. “Come on. If you die now, who’s going to help Papa in the garden? You’re the best at that. Even Mama thinks so.”

Livy slowly lowers her arm, enough to look at her sister. “Really?”

“Really,” Sély lies firmly.

Livy sighs and sits up. “All right, I’ll get out. Pass me that towel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Melodical" is not, of course, a word. But fourteen-year-old Livorette thought it should be. 
> 
> This chapter was previously posted as two separate, rather short entries for FFxivWrite; I did a bit of stitching here to make them fit into the single episode they are.


	2. Incorrigible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get a glimpse into the mind of the one, the only, the infamous Mama: Cyprienne Farouche herself. 
> 
> Timeline: another two years on from the last vignette... As you will see.

Cyprienne has always done her best for her girls. Her very, very best. And if she has not always done _the_ best, gods know she’s tried. But there is a limit to almost everything.

It’s the most upsetting business. Livorette was always a bit of an unruly child, but nothing out of which one could not grow. Taking fancies to climb the furniture, or to save errant insects from their otherwise natural deaths—not such terrible behavior. Nothing that could not be pruned away, with love and care, and shaped toward the good. The end result should have been a perfectly lovely young lady: a fine blossoming girl whom anyone would be happy to meet, to call a friend, even to take to wife. 

And yet.

Cyprienne must admit that she has noticed a rather disturbing trend over the years. Namely, that Livorette tends to avoid- even to disavow- responsibility for her wrongdoings. In fact, time and again, she has wilfully refused to comprehend that said doings are the least bit improper. Even her rare capitulations to Cyprienne’s requests for apology are performed with a sullen air that whispers, _I still believe I am right. _Whispers, _I am only doing this so that you will stop. _

But this, again, is a natural occurrence in any child- or so Cyprienne reassures herself. Children learn through repetition; therefore, only by repeated correction can they grow. Just as dear Alidor works in his garden: each mixture of compost is perfected for each plant bed; each leaf is patiently freed of pests and other troubles. And what is the result? —why, the plants thrive, and delight all who see them with their health and beauty. Such a simple thing, is it not?

And yet.

Livorette is sixteen now, and her unruly streak is- if anything- worse than it ever was. One moment she is a perfect lady, spotlessly dressed, modestly mannered; the next moment she has slipped off on her own bizarre pursuits. Directed to mind a younger child, she will turn a simple story reading into a theatrical production that may be heard even from the road. Instructed to fetch a wayward maid, she will be discovered nearly a quarter bell later engaged in deep conversation with the sluggish girl. She leaps from windows, she slides down bannisters, she laughs when nothing is funny. And she speaks her mind at the worst possible times- she does not take an instant’s consideration of how she will sound…!

Cyprienne does what she can to alleviate the reactions to her daughter’s little escapades, but she knows what people are saying. 

_Oh, poor Madame Farouche, what can she do? That eldest girl of hers is such a strange one. _

_Oh, poor Madame Farouche, she has her hands full with that Livorette. _

_Oh, poor Madame Farouche- ! One’s heart aches for her._

Well, maybe it cannot be helped. But that does not mean Cyprienne will stop trying. 

* * *

Cyprienne sits on the drawing-room settee and glances at the clock on the mantelpiece. It is nearly twenty minutes past the hour, and she hopes her daughter will not choose to be stubborn.

To her mild surprise, Livorette appears on the stroke of that twentieth minute. She is pale but presentable, with only a hint of red around her eyes.

“Come here,” Cyprienne bids her, quietly. “Sit by me.”

It really is a shame that her daughter is only so poised when she is about to be given a talking-to. The way her steps glide over the carpet now would not go amiss in a ballroom. The look of silent misery on her face, on the other hand, would be unacceptable in any situation. She takes her seat at a precise six ilms away and waits.

“Now Livorette. Livie. Do you want to tell me what really happened at Lady Garance’s this afternoon?”

Livorette gives the tiniest sigh. “I have told you as best I know how, Mama. Celestine invited me to her suite for a private chat, and while we were there she offered to let me try on her new gloves.”

“Yes,” Cyprienne agrees. “And then?”

“She took off the left one and passed it to me, and… and I had a sudden headache, very sudden, all at once. It hurt so much I became unable to see, and I- I-” Livorette breaks off, swallowing. “It was as if I were seeing through Celestine’s eyes. I s-saw her… in the evening, in the garden, w-with—”

“Oh, Livie.” Celestine shakes her head. “I had hoped you would tell me the truth.”

“But I did see it, Mama! Only I didn’t mean to see it, and I was so shocked, and frightened, and I woke up and—”

“—told a very hurtful lie about one of your oldest friends, to her face. You shall be lucky if we are ever asked to tea there again. Livorette, how could you do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” Livorette answers, tears welling in her eyes. “I wish I hadn’t seen it.”

Cyprienne reaches to take her daughter’s hand. “Livorette, look at me. You must not tell such stories. The truth is simply that you have read too often of mystics and visionaries, and it has turned your head. Is that not so?”

“No, Mama.”

Perhaps she has not been clear enough. Cyprienne fixes her daughter with her most serious stare. “It is so. You know it is. Now you will go to your room, and write Celestine a letter of apology for your rudeness. You will stop reading those fanciful accounts. And you will not do this again.”

Livorette’s voice is barely a whisper. “Yes, Mama.”

It is a hard thing, to be a parent. But one must do what one must do. And Livorette, Cyprienne thinks, has a good heart. With a good heart and a loving mother to guide her, no child is incorrigible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know exactly how to link chapters back and forth on this site, but if I did, I'd link to chapter 9 of 'You Can't Take That Away From Me' as a reminder that we've established Livorette was sixteen when she first got the Echo. So this time, I thought I'd go back to the day of that very first vision- a little after the fact, but here we are.


	3. Still Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: skip about five years forward and Livy- all of 21- has left her family behind and hared off to be an adventurer. Sélysette is 17 and doesn't know half where to start with her feelings about this. 
> 
> (Again, heavy references to chapter 9 of 'You Can't Take That Away.')

“I cannot understand it, Alidor,” Mama is saying. “How could she _do _this to me?”

Outside the sitting room, Sélysette stops, her hand ilms from the door handle. It has been another quiet evening, full of stilted conversations and brittle attempts at cheer. There are gaps all over the house where Livorette ought to be.

(Her bed has been empty for a sennight now. Her place setting is no longer laid at table. Sély sits alone in the study and stares past the same page of her book for bells, for days…)

“I don’t know, dear,” Papa says, his voice low. “I don’t know.”

“This is positively the end.” A creak in the floor, a rustle of skirts: Mama has begun to pace. “I thought she had finally understood, I really thought so. All these moons, not a hint of misbehavior; she replanted your flowers, she was a model of deportment, she even stopped all that nonsensical talk about visions… and then to vanish in the night! Without even a note!” Her voice warps on the word “note.”

“Oh, Cyprienne.” Papa sighs.

The pacing stops. “Oh, what?”

“Nothing, dear.”

“No, what?” Slight rustle- as if Mama has taken a single step. “Pray tell.”

“I merely think- well, you know what they say about still waters running deep- and when our Livy was not so quiet, we knew exactly what she thought, did we not?”

“To my eternal embarrassment. What are you driving at, Alidor?” (Sély can just see Mama crossing her arms.)

“Just that- perhaps her silence was not such a good thing, dearest. Perhaps it meant she felt she could not confide in us.”

Mama scoffs. “Of all the ridiculous things to say. What was to stop her? There we all were, every day- she could have come to any of us in private, any time she liked. If she had only taken the trouble to ask, she could have chatted as she pleased, but she did not please. No, no, I am positive she has done this to hurt me, for her own selfish reasons. If she is not home in a fortnight, I shall go to the Twin Adder and the Wood Wailers myself- let her see how she likes being dragged back by the ear at their hands…!”

And now the familiar shuddering breath, and the sniffs- ah yes. Further, heavier footsteps: Papa has risen from his seat and crossed to Mama where she stands. “There, there,” he murmurs, “it will be all right. You’ll see.”

“I will not see,” Mama says in a watery voice. “I shall never see her again, I know it. The shame of it, Alidor- the utter, utter shame… my own child, off to gods know where, disgracing herself and us…” A muffled sob. “I shan’t forgive her for this; she has broken my heart.”

She weeps almost silently, more air than voice. In the corridor, Sély’s own heart feels heavy as she listens.

Maybe Papa is right. Livorette used to chatter all the time. They used to fall asleep talking to each other, whispering back and forth from their pillows. Even when Livy had begun having her headaches and Mama was scolding her almost every day- even then she had a word or two for her sister after the lights went out. Until the incident of the garden…

Sély does not know which is worse. The silence with or without her sister.


	4. Dogged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, after leaving home herself (under a false surname) to seek her wayward sibling, we get a glimpse into Sély's time at the Lancers' Guild.

“Again!”

Sélysette fixes her eyes on the shape of the practice dummy, dull in the morning mist at twenty yalms distant. She drops a little lower in her stance, grips the training lance, and leaps-

-so close, but not close enough. The tip of her weapon falls well short of the dummy’s sackcloth hide.

“And back!”

Sély returns to her starting point, blowing out a frustrated breath. She wishes she could understand why this is still so difficult. Does she not stretch well or carefully enough before coming to practice? Is she undermining her own momentum somehow? 

Every day she asks what she can do to improve, and every day they tell her: you are doing all we ask and more. If anything, you are pushing yourself a touch too hard. You must remember to properly rest. 

“But I do!” she protests. “Every night, no less than two bells, no more than eight. I tend to average about six.” 

And your diet, they ask her; you are regulating your meals? You are neither under nor over-eating?

“Yes,” she says, “yes I am. I’m never _too_ hungry; I stop the moment I’m full.” 

Maybe she has started too late? But no, children do not join the lancers’ guild. This is a place for grown folks. Or is it that she is, in fact, a little too young? She is tall for seventeen, she knows; early growth spurts seem to run in the family. Surely, though, youth can only be an advantage in a fighting style that relies so much on agility. But day after day, she keeps falling short. 

She will persevere, though. She must and shall grow stronger. And she _will_ master that godsforsaken jump.

* * *

“Morning, Babiole,” rings the call across the barracks as Sély returns from the showers. 

Sély does not set her jaw, nor does she frown; she deliberately smooths her expression and inhales slowly, silently, exhaling the same way. “Good morning, D'Albinnert,” she replies evenly. “For the next ten minutes.”

“Please, it’s _Albinnert_,” the speaker responds, tossing his hair as she knew he would. “Always so formal, Babiole.”

“I dropped the ‘Ser,’ didn’t I?” Light, light with the voice.

D’Albinnert laughs, that bizarre sound like “huoh-ha-hoh!” which he clearly believes is a manly display. “Only after sixty-odd days of my insisting! Old habits die hard, eh? But you managed it in the end.”

She smiles, thinly. “As I do with most things.” It was a moon and a half, and she still feels uncomfortable leaving off the honorific. She puts away her toiletries one by one, wishing he would leave.

“Atta girl,” D’Albinnert says cheerfully. “Like that forward jump, no? What has it been, three weeks, four, and you’ve been working on it every day without fail. Morning, noon and night! Maybe you ought to take a break once in a while—it might help.”

He pauses meaningfully, and Sély knows what is coming. He wants her to take a break _with him_. But she has not come here to flirt or to dilly-dally about with anyone, least of all this fellow. “Maybe,” she repeats, stowing the last of her things. “Now if you do not mind, I must be going.”

She straightens up and turns to make for the door. Unfortunately she is forced to stop at two steps along, as D’Albinnert chooses to throw himself over the intervening furniture directly into her path. “Oh, Babiole,” he says, a touch breathless. “Don’t be so cold. It’s lunch time, now- would you grace me with your company?”

“Thank you kindly, but I fear I must decline.” Sély sidesteps him and continues on her way.

And finds him before her again. “Must you? Would it be so terrible to share a single meal with me?” 

“Oh, D’Albinnert,” she says, aping his phrasing, “do not sound so wounded. If anything, it is I who would make poor company; I do not like to take too long over my food.” 

“Nor do I,” he declares, feet planted firmly on the floor. “No muss, no fuss. In the hatch and out the door, that’s what I say- it leaves more time for conversation afterward.” He flashes a smile which might actually be charming on, oh, anyone else. 

“I hate to refuse, truly-”

“Then don’t! My dear Babiole, you mustn’t so devote yourself to the lance that you forget to live.” He takes a step toward her now, silvery eyes oozing with a mixture of expressions that Sély does not care to parse. 

“I assure you I do not forget that.”

But he is still in her way, and Sély has had enough. As he opens his mouth to make another inane argument, she puts a finger up to his lips, sending color flooding to his surprised face. “Now, now,” she says to him, “I am rather hungry. You would not keep me from eating entirely, would you?” 

D’Albinnert blinks at her, blushing like a schoolboy. “I…”

She pats his cheek. “I thought not. Then please, would you move aside?” 

He does, dazedly. 

“_Thank_ you. Farewell, D’Albinnert,” she says, briskly, and is off at last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our young would-be swain here is named for a fool who gave a friend of mine a great deal of grief in a similar way. Well, okay, I had to Elezen-ify the fellow's name, but there's our fun bit of trivia for this chapter.


	5. With Any Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in Limsa Lominsa: Livorette has had a fateful run-in with a certain popoto... but without knowing if the lady has a linkpearl, what's a girl to do? 
> 
> Why, talk to a sympathetic barkeep of course! 
> 
> (References the flashback in chapter 15 of 'You Can't Take That Away.')

“So let me get this straight,” Baderon says. “Yer askin’ me to be on the lookout for one Lalafellin lass, in a whole cityful of lasses who might or might not pass through me doors, on account of ‘er bein’—”

“The most beautiful woman in the world,” Livorette blurts, as her face merrily burns. (Her face was already hot. Every word of this conversation simply increases its temperature.)

“I was goin’ to say ‘lucky to be alive,’“ he finishes dryly, though a smile is creasing his cheeks. “An’ on the off chance that I do spot 'er, ye’d like me to let 'er know she can contact ye 'ere. If she wants to.”

Livy groans, putting her forehead on the heel of her hand. “I know, I know it sounds crazy, but I just… I can’t forget her, Baderon, I can’t. Especially not after how kind she was to me.”

“It’s been what, a fortnight? Give it time.”

“Baderon, please!” Livy feels like crying. “I wouldn’t have come to you with this if I weren’t serious.”

It’s taken her three days to even form this plan, let alone work up the nerve to approach him with it. But she stands by her logic. In a city like Limsa Lominsa, with a single unusually central tavern, it stands to reason that sometime or other Gogoha might show her face here.

“If I had a gil for every unhappy sod who asked me aught like this…” Baderon shakes his head. “I’m not a bleedin’ message board, lass.”

Livy lifts her chin at that. “No, you’re not. Meaning that you can make sure the message gets to the right person, and only the right person.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Yer an adventurer, ain’t ye? Surely word would spread fast enough, if ye put it about that a lovesick young marauder seeks to make amends to the woman she nearly sq-”

“Not so loud!” Livy implores, in a sudden panic.

But the grizzled old bartender is chuckling softly. “Easy there, lass, I didn’t mean that. Reckon I do 'ave a gil for everyone who’s come 'ere to drown their sorrows, anyroad.” He pauses, studying her face.

Livorette can imagine what he must see. A picture of desperation, of pining misery, of a girl who’s well and truly lost her head over an encounter of a mere few bells. It’s foolish and pathetic and utterly mad, but this is the fate that the Spinner has seen fit to weave for her, and Livorette can hardly argue with fate.

Besides, Gogoha… Gogoha is something else. Something special. She didn’t have to sit with Livy as long as she did. She didn’t have to offer her food, or drink, like she did. She accepted exactly one apology and brushed off all subsequent attempts with a kind of brusque grace; she asked about Livy’s life and listened with interest to the answers. Although come to think of it, all that might have been her very thorough way of making sure that Livy didn’t have sunstroke or some other affliction… but still—!

“Please,” she repeats, softly. “I won’t be able to rest until I know once and for all whether I’ll see her again.”

Baderon hesitates a second longer, then blows out a laughing breath. “All right, all right, ye can turn off the hurt-pup eyes. Seein’ as it’s ye doin’ the askin’, I’ll keep an eye out for yer lady.”

The weight on Livy’s heart eases just a bit. A few tears of joy slip free. “Oh, thank you,” she breathes, wiping her eyes. “You won’t regret this. I’ll see to it myself.”

“Don’t worry yerself too much about that,” he tells her. “I’ll settle for givin’ ye an update once a week, long as ye leave it be the rest of the time. An’ for gods’ sake, have a nap, ye look about to fall over.”

She considers this. Yes, probably a good idea. “All right,” she says, beaming, and heads off to her Mizzenmast room.

The message is left. The waiting begins. With any luck, she won’t have to wait too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I knew how Baderon talked. I was wrong. Had to read over a bunch of his dialogue to make sure I got it right. XD
> 
> Now, my friends, we have but two more jumps through the timeline before- le gasp- we get to this year's continuous storyline...


	6. Twelve's Honest Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Soon after the great reunion of chapters 12 and 13 in 'You Can't Take That Away'- Sély's has found her sister, aye, but found her in the midst of the Dragonsong War. And yet Sély's personal mission is but half complete. 
> 
> In other words... there is a Conversation that must happen.

Sélysette has had a very long day. 

It started out well enough. Waking cozy by the remains of the fire, finding her clothes and the training yard both. Coming in to breakfast to find Livorette not only dressed but ready for travel, Gogoha making a visible effort not to appear _entirely_ glued to her love’s side. They’ve crossed the Steps of Faith; they’ve taken the quick tour of Ishgard—city of snow, ice and a thousand thousand-yalm stares. They have met Alphinaud Leveilleur and Tataru Taru, foremost among Livy’s scattered Scions; they have been introduced to Lord Haurchefant’s family, the grand total of three men that comprise House Fortemps, with a warmth and enthusiasm unmatched by any of their peers. 

On and on, hither and yon, with barely a minute to breathe. Gogoha seems perfectly content, her Lalafellin steps keeping perfect pace with Livy wherever the latter cares to go, but Sélysette is growing impatient. When, pray tell, might two long-parted sisters have a moment truly alone?

* * *

“Look,” Livy says, “I’ll make you a deal.”

Sélysette is not hopeful. They’ve been going round in circles for two bells already, if not more, almost since the moment dinner ended. She’s faintly surprised that their pacing feet haven’t worn ruts into the marble floor. The fire is getting low, the hour is getting late, and Livorette…

Livorette looks just as exhausted as Sély feels.

“Well?” 

Livorette takes a breath. Blows it out. “I will go home with you—” she holds up a hand, stalling the interjection she is sure will come— “for a visit. When all of this is over.”

“All of this?” Sély repeats, skeptical.

“The war, the godsdamned war.”

“And when will that be?” (The words are out before Sély can stop them.)

Her sister runs clawed fingers into her rosy hair. “You know I can’t know that, none of us can. _But—_I promise. When this war is over, we will go home, _for a visit_, together. You and Gogoha and I.”

Sély folds her arms, again. Waits to be sure that is the end of the speech. “For how long?”

Livorette worries an ear clasp. “…A week. Would that be long enough?”

Will it? Who can say. Mama’s etiquette has never had to cover such a situation as this. But it’s been so long… over six moons now. Every passing day adds to the balance, and Livy was never much good with numbers.

“I know you promised Papa,” Livy says, softly. “I know you promised him you’d find me and bring me back, to show that we were both all right. But I’m not the same person I was when I left. People need me now, Sély, so many more people than I ever thought possible. The Scions… the Ishgardians…”

“Gogoha,” Sélysette adds with a sigh. “The whole blessed world.”

There is a pause.

“Do you think they could spare you a moon?” she suggests. “Surely the world won’t fall apart in a moon.”

Livy gives the fireplace a frown. “Never mind the world, _I_ might fall apart in that time.” She looks back to Sély. “A week and a half.”

“Two weeks and a half.”

“Two weeks, full stop, and that’s my final offer.” Livorette holds out a hand.

Sélysette hesitates. “When the war is over?”

The proffered hand rises to a salute. “Twelve’s honest truth.” Livy reaches out once more.

Well, when she puts it like that…

Sélysette clasps her sister’s hand in her own, and they shake. “Twelve’s honest truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what is the result of coming to this game well in the wake of Stormblood? Why, of course, it means that there is absolutely no intervening time between the post-Heavensward patches and Stormblood. So. Well. We're putting a pin in that visit, for now...


	7. In Spite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onward we go in the timeline, right through Stormblood, all the way to patch 4.3- firmly past the end of 'Can't Take That Away.' Gogoha, well knowing what happened the last time she let Livy out of her sight for too long, is set on remaining by her dear dhalmel's side and thus fully gets to witness this train wreck.
> 
> Or: In which certain dirty tricks leave more collateral emotional damage than expected.

“What a pleasure it is to see you once more, Lord Hien,” Asahi simpers, as Livorette makes a concerted effort not to roll her eyes. “Not to mention my dear sister.”

Gogoha gives her a discreet pat on the calf, her quiet way of showing support. Thank goodness she insisted on coming along when Tataru called from the Ruby Bazaar this morning. Livy focuses on that touch, on her intended’s presence, to combat the intense irritation of the ambassador’s every syllable. He’s on about the “spirit of cooperation,” now. Only he could make such a phrase sound like that: like sugar cubes left too long in the cupboard, turned hard and cloying on one’s tongue. Caught up in the disgust of this thought, Livy only half listens as Hien summarizes the facts of Tsuyu’s continued amnesia.

“I took the liberty of inviting some special guests,” Asahi is saying now, gesturing for one of his entourage to make a call. Livy is just about to tune out once more, when something in the air suddenly changes: it sets her spine all prickling to attention.

A couple in late middle age come forth, apparently having waited aboard the airship for this cue. They wear plain kimonos, and walk with trepidation to stand before—

“Ah, Yotsuyu!” says the husband, tentative. “You look… well.”

Tsuyu stares at him, at his wife, for about three seconds. Then she flinches and falls to her knees, trembling.

And Livy feels her blood turning to ice.

“Is something wrong, dear sister?” Asahi oozes with a sickening smile. “These are our beloved parents. Does not the sight of them bring back sweet childhood memories?”

This time Tsuyu cries out in pain, clutching at her head. Every nerve in Livy’s body flinches right along with her. Every instinct in every fiber of her being is screaming to be heard at once: _shield her. Take the blame. Get her away from here._

But just as she steps forward to do something, anything, Tsuyu’s tremors stop. She has caught sight of her dropped persimmon—the prize for which she had slipped out of the Enclave. “Gosetsu,” she murmurs, so quietly that Livy can hardly hear her. “I have to take this to Gosetsu.” Cradling the fruit in both hands, she gets shakily to her feet.

_This is a diplomatic meeting. This is a _diplomatic _meeting_, Livy thinks with gritted teeth. _No matter how he profanes the term, don’t you dare cleave him in two. That axe stays on your back unless you want to bring the Empire down on all our heads._

The conversation ends mere moments later, for which Livy sends up fervent prayers of thanks to Nymeia. She stalks out of the castrum, pulls her axe from its holster, and starts looking for the nearest beast.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re all right for this?” Gogoha whispers to Livy, as the group makes for Gosetsu’s room.

“Yes,” Livy tells her. “I killed enough tenaga just now to make firewood for weeks. I’ll be fine.” It’s not a lie; she has taken out nearly all of her anger on the creatures. She’s fit for another discussion now, truly, she tells herself.

Naturally, Gosetsu asks why Tsuyu came back looking like she’d been crying. Naturally, Hien speaks up to explain. “A misguided attempt to restore Yotsuyu to her senses,” he says. “It was plain their presence caused her great distress, but she seemed otherwise unaffected—”

“It was an outrage.” The words burst forth before Livy can think to stop them, cutting through Hien’s sentence like so many thrown blades. “It was the foulest, most scurrilous trick I ever saw. The way she flinched, the way she cried out—she was in _physical pain_, and that little worm Asahi knew she would be! He knew it and he brought them on purpose! She fell to the ground at the sight of them, she cowered like they were going to beat her then and there—or I don’t know what—and he just _stood there_ with this horrible _smirk_ and—and—ugh, gods! Just—”

Gogo’s hand is on her arm, suddenly, and Livy stops in spite of herself. Takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” she mutters. “Sorry. Got into a bit of a wax there.”

Alphinaud looks a bit dazed. “Ah… yes. Worry not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, the random vignettes end. From this point forward, it's sustained-story time.


	8. Sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With patch 4.3 complete, and 4.4 not yet begun, Livy figures there's one bullet she still needs to bite. After all- she did make a promise...
> 
> POV: Sélysette.

Sélysette is looking over the Limsa market board listings when she hears her linkpearl go off. It is obliged to ring a few times before she can dig it out of her pocket; if it were not so hard to replace, she would not have to protect it by carrying it within so much padding. At last, though, she is able to raise it to her ear. “Yes?”

“Hey, er. Sély?”

Livorette’s voice. “Yes,” Sély repeats, “yes, it’s me.”

“Great. Er. Do you have a minute?”

Livy sounds odd. Sély can’t quite put her finger on it. She steps away from the market altogether, looking round for a quieter spot in which to stand. “I do have one,” she responds as she walks. “What’s the matter?”

There is a pause, in which she is able to find a place under one of Limsa’s few trees, and to hear a strange noise that sounds as though Livy is swallowing something. “Er. Well, this latest business in Doma is wrapped up for the time being, so I was thinking—I wondered if you’d want to, er. Go out somewhere? Have a chat? Our treat, of course, Gogo’s and mine.”

Sély has placed that tone now: the tone of a Livorette with much and more on her tongue, things that can only be said in person. “Of course,” she answers. “Meet you at the Snipper in a bell?”

A release of breath, adding to the usual hiss of the linkpearl connection. “The Snipper. Great. See you there.” The connection ends.

* * *

The Little Snipper is a hole-in-the-wall sort of cafe in the Lower Decks. Tea, juices, coffee and pastries, all to be had for far fewer gil than they’re worth. Livorette swears they have the best tea in the city full stop, but Sély knows what she means: the best carline tea outside of Gridania. She is just a fulm or two before the entrance when Sély arrives, not so much pacing across the narrow walkway as pivoting back and forth over the span of a single step.

“Ah, Sély, you’re here!” She bursts out of the pattern, coming forward to seize her sister’s hand in greeting. “Gogo’s already got us a table, and we’ve ordered a few things- they just made a fresh batch of those apricot-jam buns you like, so I’ve got those coming. Here, here, come sit.”

The said table is straight to the back and around the corner, out of sight from passersby. Livorette slides onto the bench next to Gogoha, gesturing Sély into the seat across from them. (She’s facing the rest of the cafe, she notices, with the wall behind her.) Waiting square in the center of the table is Sély’s other favorite treat here, a glistening rolanberry cheesecake.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think they were trying to soften a blow.

“So,” Livy says, just as Sély is taking a breath to do the same. “We have, ah. We have some news…” She moves one hand to the side below the table—doubtless taking Gogoha’s.

“You’re engaged?” Sély guesses.

Livy’s mouth drops open. “What—but—how did you—”

Gogoha turns ‘I-told-you-so’ eyes to her dear. “See? What did I say? You’re lucky I didn’t bet you on this.”

“You know I don’t bet,” Livy sighs. She is only somewhat deflated, however; there is plenty of tension remaining in her frame. 

“But that’s not the only thing we wanted to talk to you about.”

Sély nods. “So, the ceremony. Have you done the pilgrimage yet to the marks of the Twelve? Were you going to use the Sanctum? I can help you get the invites out, if you like, and you know I’ll be right there in the front row-”

“No,” Livy cuts in, impatient, then falters. “I—I mean thank you, that’s very kind of you, and we’ll probably take you up on that offer, but… but that wasn’t what I…” She trails off.

Gogoha looks up at her. “Do you want me to tell her?”

“No, no…” Livy shakes her head. “It’s okay, I can do this. Um.”

Sély tries to think of what on earth it can be that has her sister so nervous still. Do they have some mad scheme that will require ridiculous amounts of effort? Is she somehow ill? 

Livy takes a deliberate breath. “It’s about the promise I made you. I was thinking… this life I’ve gotten into, being the Warrior, being engaged on top of that… I’m supposed to be a person who keeps her word, no? And so I think… I think it’s finally time to go home for that visit. With you.”

In the ensuing silence, as Sély tries and fails to think of what to say, the waiter appears with skilfully balanced trays- one containing a steaming teapot, the other piled with almond cream croissants, pastry fish, and the promised apricot buns. He deposits his bounty with efficient grace and departs as swiftly as he came, all without a single obtrusive word. 

“I have spoken with Gogo about this already,” Livy says, eventually. “If you were wondering. And yes, she does want to come along, if that’s all right.”

“She keeps saying I don’t have to,” Gogoha adds, “but like hells I won’t. I’ve read those letters she wrote. I’m not going to make you two go back there alone.” 

At that, Sély finds her tongue. “Alone, what- what do you mean? We wouldn’t be alone. Papa would be there. Besides, it’s not as if the place is some sort of dungeon.” 

But Livy is shaking her head, though the rest of her is starting to tremble. “No, you’re right, you’re both right. I just. I’ve made you wait long enough. I need to do this, as soon as possible, before I lose my nerve.” 

She reaches for the teapot; Gogo stands up and gently intercepts her. The tea pours into Livy’s cup with soft liquid sounds, as the carline-scented steam billows up over the table, and Sély thinks she can see her sister’s shoulders ease down just a bit. 

“Livy, are you sure you’ll be all right if we do go?” Sély is really starting to wonder.

For answer, she gets a shaky smile. “With you two by my side? Sure I’m sure.”


	9. Withering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That feel when you've made a decision you already regret, even before you carry it out...

“You know what the worst part is?” Livorette says quietly.

“No,” Sély answers. “What?”

They’re sitting fireside in the Mizzenmast. Gogoha has taken herself off to bed, though not without securing repeated assurances that Livy will follow the moment she feels tired. Sélysette is on the couch, legs swathed in a blanket, while Livy just sits on the rug and hunches down by the cooling hearth.

Livy worries at her ear clasps. “Thinking about what Mama will say. When we’re back. When she asks, as she inevitably will, what we’ve been doing… and what do we tell her? What can we tell her that she won’t immediately dismiss?”

Sély opens her mouth, but is forced to stop there, because Livy is right. All the realm might know of the Warrior of Light, but it is more than likely that Mama and Papa have made the same mistake Sély did. Who would ever guess that a runaway daughter would rise to such heights? Who would connect a legendary hero with one’s own flesh and blood?

“…I don’t know,” she finally replies. “But just to think out loud, certainly it’s not all so fantastic. You made your way from home to Limsa Lominsa, you joined the Marauders’ guild. And the Maelstrom. Those are perfectly ordinary things, aren’t they?” Livy nods, slowly. “Right. Besides which, you’ve become an adventurer. And now,” Sély finishes, “you’ve met the woman you want to marry, and you’re bringing her home to meet them.”

Livorette stares into the red embers. “Perfectly ordinary,” she repeats. “Of course. So ordinary that I couldn’t be bothered to drop them even the most cursory of lines… Mama will have no trouble believing _that_ of me, at least. Of that, she’s got concrete proof.

“And you?” she asks gloomily. “What will you say?”

Sély hesitates. “I… I’ve become a lancer, and a member of the Twin Adder, and I’ve been all over Eorzea trying to find you. And when I met Gogoha, who’d also lost touch with you, we helped each other track you down. That’s simple enough.”

“Too simple.”

There’s something more behind that phrase. Sély bites her tongue on the words hurrying to trip off it, probably something like _well what more would you have?_ She waits.

“I’m just…” Livy’s fingers move more insistently at her ear. “I'm—I’m afraid. Of things being like they were. Everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve done—we’ll get home and none of it will matter, will it? All Mama will care about is her godsdamned etiquette. All that will matter is whether I hold my curtsy long enough, whether I speak too loudly, whether I properly chastise myself for a hundred different things. I could show her every scar we’ve earned between us, every burn, every old bruise. And what difference would it make?”

She puts on a voice. Cool, smooth, withering as a breeze in the Burn. “'So you’ve taken up an axe, have you. Fascinating. Tell me, do you also take up barroom fights? Or are you simply a common sellsword making a spectacle of herself at anyone’s request? Oh, your hair is a fright—let us call the hairdressers; mayhap they can help you disguise that til it all grows out again.‘”

Sély stares outright. Aside from the possibly exaggerated phrasing, Livy’s imitation is positively eerie. “Mama Cyprienne” speaks on.

“And you’re slouching, gracious me, adventurers ought to have better posture—I am given to understand their work is rather… athletic. Hardly the sort of job for a soft spine. Now pass the sugar, Livie dear.’ On and on and _on_, as if nothing ever changed, as if we never left.”

_Stop_, Sély wants to say—then makes herself say it. “Stop.” The effort that this takes frightens her. She had thought she was moving past this at least a little. She’d thought she had learned to relax… not to be shocked when she heard people swear, not to go wide-eyed at the sight of elbows on the table. Hasn’t she traveled half the world now at her sister’s side? Hasn’t she seen things Mama would never think to look for?

Doesn’t she know better, now, than to slip into her old role, silent and obeisant and inwardly alone?


	10. Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast-forward through most of the travel time between Vylbrand and the Shroud. Center on three young women, rattling along in a chocobo carriage, side by side by side. 
> 
> Center on a dutiful daughter, having _vicious_ second thoughts.

“You really are a saint, Gogo,” Livorette sighs for the hundredth time.

They’re rattling along in a chocobo carriage, sitting side by side- Livorette, Gogoha, and Sélysette, in that order. Their respective birds are stabled at the Roost back in Gridania; every little touch helps, and the other two agreed with Sély this morning that riding up smelling of ‘bo musk would probably not make the best first impression.

Of course, this decision was materially helped by the appearance of an old friend—Bremondt, the merchant with whom Sély took the last leg of her solo flight to the city so long ago. Recognizing not only her but (of course) her sister, he wouldn’t hear of their traveling with anyone else, and now here they all are.

The wind has slapped a dash of color onto her sister’s cheeks, though she still looks rather pale. Gogoha’s fingers are wound through her beloved’s in a white-knuckle grip which Sély believes is meant to be reassuring. (To be certain, it could not work the other way about—unless Gogoha wishes to lose a hand.) On the other side, Sély’s own hand is rather limp in the Lalafell’s: she is using most of her energy to dig her free fingertips into her gloved palm, as her stomach ties itself in knot after knot.

“I’m no saint,” Gogoha replies now, as she has done every time the statement has been made. “I just love you. And I’m here for both your sakes,” giving Sély’s hand a little squeeze. “Besides, I’d have met your parents sooner or later—and sooner is usually better.”

“Yes,” Livorette agrees, her voice a touch hollow. “Get the worst over first. After this, a dozen primals will be cake.”

_It won’t be so bad_, Sély thinks, although even the thought sounds half-hearted. She has written ahead, so they won’t be arriving unannounced. And they come with good news: both sisters alive, hale and whole; Livorette the veteran hero of no less than three wars, without so much as a missing finger; not to mention an engagement! What could be better?

“It won’t be so bad,” she tries aloud, under her breath. No use, however: the words have no more conviction on her tongue than they did in her brain. The greenery rolls by, swift and steady. Sély catches familiar glimpses- she knows that stump, and that leaning larch. In less than a quarter bell now, they will be at the doorstep of Maison Farouche, and the reckoning will begin.

* * *

The scent comes wafting toward them as they walk down the drive. Livorette recognizes it first.

“Is that…” She takes a questioning sniff. “It is.”

“What?” Sély asks, and then she knows. “_Oh._”

They round a curve and are greeted with a great carpet of—lilybells. Fulm upon fulm of them, little white blossoms shaken by the breeze, seeming almost to tremble in the dappled afternoon sunlight. It is a sight to stun the eye and daze the nose. Indeed, Sély half expects them to ring with tiny, tiny chimes.

All three drift to a stop, staring. The house is visible now, rising from the lilybell drifts like something out of a dream. Where one wing used to be now lies the vast trunk of a fallen tree, its exposed roots long since overgrown with moss. The wounded walls were closed with fresher wood, Sély remembers, chopped by their father’s own hand—cut to planks and planed smooth by old friends who had come to his aid in solidarity.

_Mama hated taking their charity. But she could not abide the wind whistling through her halls, either- disarranging, disrupting, discomfiting her carefully-appointed rooms. So she straightened her spine and pretended it had all been her idea, and chastised Papa for the sap left on his fingers._

Dark and solid is Maison Farouche, its roof crowned with the same old cupola over what was once the center of the house. Neither moss nor flowers dare to grow anywhere upon it; fallen leaves do not remain for long. Sély watches a few roll off the eaves, fluttering like paper to the ground, and tells herself she does not envy them—landing to quietly molder into the earth.

“Come on, then,” she says, with a mouth drier than the leaves. She pauses to take a sip of her canteen- but it does not help nearly enough. “We’ve gotten this far.”

“Right,” Gogoha agrees firmly.

Livorette is muttering, chanting something lowly through her teeth. She breaks off with an effort and nods, a clipped jerk of her head. “R-right. Yes.”

They set off once more, the three of them. Though circumstances preclude their being hand in hand or arm in arm, they compromise by being nearly perfectly in step. They will ascend that porch, and ring that bell, and face whatever may come as one.

After all, Sély reminds herself, they are come bearing good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Sély is not quite thinking straight here; otherwise, she'd remember that they had agreed to ix-nay talk of the ess-queue-may... XD But when the moment comes, she'll recall the fact. Because she's good like that. Practical. Yep...


	11. The Prodigal Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As we pull up to the front of the house, shift the camera now to Gogoha: the outsider, the newcomer... the audience, for whom Madame Farouche is on her best behavior.

The Maison Farouche certainly doesn’t look the most welcoming place—indeed, it fairly looms over the yalms of white flowers that lie before it. Yet as forbidding as it seems to Gogoha, it must appear far worse to the eyes of its returning daughters. They flank her with a measured step, neither too fast nor too slow.

Despite her apprehensions the night before, Liv was firm on one thing: she would not wear a skirt of any kind. Instead she has chosen an ensemble in blues and browns, save the white-winged collar which serves to bolster the line of her neck. The fluttering of the elegantly ragged cuffs, also white, nearly distracts one from the subtle shaking of her gloved hands. Add in the cascade of ruffles pouring from her right hip to her boot cuff, and the result is—frilly, yes, but a frilliness that will not shrink from danger. A frilliness that means business, with the jaunty angle of the lilybell hairpin (Gogo’s present) adding the final touch… well, that and a pair of well-wrapped hora in the bottom of the pouch at Liv’s back. Just in case.

Sélysette, meanwhile, has undergone a complete transformation… all right, not _complete_; her flaxen hair remains in its usual twin braids, pinned into a wreath around her head. But she looks cool and collected in a gray woolen frock, its ribbon-trimmed hem waving round her calves in their soft mole-brown boots. A red oldrose is affixed to her smooth tresses. Though the girl’s nearer hand now hangs relaxed at her side, Gogoha did not miss that fist earlier. She’s only surprised that Sélysette’s fingernails haven’t pierced right through her gloves under such strain.

As for Gogoha herself, well. Livorette’s very first present to her, the black oldrose pin, sits firmly in its customary place on her hair. Her feet are secure in heeled black boots, leathern leggings rising above them- but all this is neatly obscured by the finest dress she could lay hands on, a grand yet understated affair in a good yalm or three of currant-purple silk with pristine white lace at the (beautifully high, undoubtedly modest) neck and wrists. It all rustles with a pleasing, quiet dignity, and Gogo is certain that even the haughtiest of mothers could find no fault—

—at which precise moment the front door swings slowly open.

It is well that they’ve just come within a few fulms of the porch stairs, for Livorette and Sélysette have turned to statues where they stand. Their eyes are fixed on the door, or so Gogo thinks. Then she realizes her mistake as a woman comes into view.

She is long and lean, though shorter now than either of the girls who watch her so intently. Her nose is Sélysette’s nose, her mouth is Livorette’s mouth- if a little more pinched by time. Dark amber eyes peer down at the three of them from a face framed by hair of a slightly faded, yet unmistakable pink.

Sélysette is the first to break the silence. “Hello, Mama. We’re home.”

“Oh Sélysette, dear, at last.” Madame Farouche’s voice is warm, though she frowns ever so slightly as she begins to descend toward the trio, her gaze moving over each of them in turn. “Thank goodness. Your father was beginning to worry; he always does if you’re so much as half a minute late to anything. I tried my best to reassure him, of c—”

Then she cuts herself off. Registers a double take. Her fingertips fly up almost to her mouth, hovering mere ilms in the air before her lips. “_Livorette! _Oh Livie!”

Next moment Madame is sweeping down the steps at a much-accelerated rate, her eyes alight for Livorette alone, and it’s Gogoha’s turn to stare transfixed. The resemblance between mother and daughter is suddenly glaring, eerie, uncanny—so much so that Gogo doesn’t notice the green skirts coming straight for her face til the last instant. Her instinctive backward jump might have ended in a ruinous spill, were it not for Sélysette and her statue-solid legs.

“Thanks,” Gogo mutters. She rights herself and focuses. She hasn’t had a prim or proper thought in years, but for Livorette’s sake, she’s going to summon them all back. 

Meanwhile, oblivious to the near carnage, Madame Farouche is positively beside herself. “Oh Livorette- my child- I never thought I’d see you again. Come, let me embrace you,” and she clasps Livy to her bosom, holding her there for a second or so too long before she pulls back once more. “Now let me look at you—_oh!” _she suddenly gasps. “Your _hair_\- your lovely hair, what have they done to you? Was it bandits? Poachers? Vengeful would-be aestheticians? Poor thing, you wear it bravely—and what a fine hairpin, how very apropos!

“But come, come, let us not stand about here any longer. Your poor father will want to see you. He’s been doing nothing but planting and tending those lilybells for the last few moons, and I haven’t had the heart to say him nay—”

Deliberately, politely, Gogoha clears her throat. 

“A thousand pardons for the interruption, Madame Farouche,” she says, making certain her voice is entirely changed: all silk and butter, a chocolate croissant. “But I believe we have not been properly introduced.”

Madame stares down in surprise. “Indeed we have not. Livorette, dear, who is this charming lass?”

True color tints Livy’s cheeks at this, and she actually finds her tongue. “Mama, this is Gogoha Goha. She has been a dear and true friend to both Sély and I for some time now, and a great deal more than that to me. In fact, just recently, she has become my… my—”

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle Goha,” Madame Farouche says, apparently quite unconscious of the way she has just trodden upon her daughter’s sentence. “But I could swear I know you. Is it possible we have met before?”

Gogoha drops a perfect curtsy. “Entirely possible, Madame, after a fashion. My own mother is a widely traveled woman; she has friends in all the city-states. And folk do say we look alike.”

“Fascinating. You must tell us more. But come, come,” Madame Farouche repeats, “let us repair to the sitting room, and you can tell my husband and I all about yourself. Oh- do watch your step.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... I have no idea how much fabric it would actually take to make the High House Bustle, though I have seen photos of cosplay recreations. On the other hand, those were all regular human women, not three-fulm-high popotos, so who knows? Still, if anyone has a better idea of those measurements, feel free to shout it out.


	12. Sugar and Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast-forwarding the day just a touch, it's back to Sély's viewpoint.

“I don’t trust this. She’s up to something, I know it.”

Livorette cannot stay still. They’ve spent the last two bells in the sitting room practically drowning in tea. Mama and Gogoha performed what can only be described as an extended social duel, whilst Livy, Sély and Papa had mostly functioned as witnesses.

(“Why Mademoiselle, surely you jest. Four-and-twenty? You can’t be a day over fifteen.”

“Oh, Madame is too kind! Alas, though, it is the Twelve’s honest truth.” Teacup meets saucer with a gentle click of china.

“And you’re an adventurer, you say- well, I simply must tell you, your complexion is _stunning_. Absolutely stunning. Dust and wind alone can wreak such havoc, and yet look at you! One would think you’d never met so much as a drop of sunlight.” Dazzling smile.

“Why _thank_ you, Madame, I do my best. I could even share some of my secrets, if you wish! I must warn you, though, there are some rather exotic items on the list—not for the faint of heart!” Mischievous wink. On and on that way until finally, _finally_ they were permitted to go upstairs for a rest.)

Now Sélysette is stretched out on her own old bed, boots neatly on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Livorette is all but bouncing off the walls, so swiftly is she pacing the room. Gogoha has removed the outer layer of her bodice, the better to preserve its freshness for later wear; it hangs within reach of the breeze, near the open window, while its owner perches on the vanity stool just beside it.

“Look on the bright side, Livy,” Sély offers wearily. “We came here expecting to be cut to ribbons with both sides of Mama’s tongue, and yet here we are, unscathed.” _For the moment,_ she does not need to say, but thinks anyway. She drags her gaze from the crown molding in order to catch her sister’s eye.

“Yes. Yes, we are unscathed. Thanks to you—” Livorette pauses in her pivot to place a fervent kiss on Gogoha’s hair— “my brave, valiant love. Don’t think I’ll forget this, either, because I won’t. You were magnificent.” 

“You’re welcome,” Gogoha replies. “Though I wish you’d come to a full stop. You’re making me dizzy.”

Livorette drops at once to her haunches. “I’m sorry, Gogo. Is this better?”

“Yes,” and Gogoha leans over to return the kiss, which Livorette receives with closed eyes and bowed head as though it were a benediction; Sély looks discreetly away. For one lovely moment, there is stillness in the room.

“But she _is _up to something.”

The spell is broken. Sélysette covers her face with both hands and groans. “For gods’ sake, Livy, it’s only three-thirty and already I want to go to sleep. Here’s an idea: what if she isn’t? What if Mama isn’t actually up to anything? Imagine that.”

“Impossible.” There is a faint creak of leather as though her sister is making to stand up once more, and then a soft thump. “Sorry, Gogo. But Sély, listen to yourself. How can you say that in good conscience? She’s finally got us under her roof again and if we’re not careful, she’ll never let us out. Don’t pretend you believe she’s changed that much in the time we were gone.”

“Why not?” Sély shoots back. “You changed, didn’t you? I did too. You’re the Warrior of Light, I’m the first ever co-Azure Dragoon. We’ve seen gods! And dragons! And a truly frightening thing or five, including that deranged prince who kept calling you a beast and trying to put you in the ground. Who’s to say this mightn’t be one more miracle?”

Livorette actually growls. “Miracles happen, all right. But _not to Cyprienne Farouche._”

“Enough!” Gogoha cuts in. “I can’t listen to much more of this. One of you is right, no doubt, but for now we have no way of telling which one. So Liv? Dearest? Come and sit with me on the chaise over there, and let your poor sister relax.”

They cross to the said seat, and stillness returns.

Sély lowers her hands and lets her eyes fall shut. She has her own suspicions, though she won’t air them just yet. For instance, it has not escaped her notice that—despite the grilling that Gogoha endured with such grace—the word _fiancée _was, somehow, never uttered. Not once. It hovered in the air all through the conversation, yet every time even the tip of an ‘f’ began to show, Mama pounced on it and squashed it flat. Like a coeurl on its prey.

Still, there is a voice in Sély’s heart that refuses to be silenced. A voice which pleads on their mother’s behalf.

_We were gone for nearly a year. Who knows what happened here in that time? Behind closed doors, in the most private moments of the self? She’s had a rough go of it, has Mama, and so for that matter has Papa. Gods,_ _Sély, you’re only eighteen; are you really so jaded? If you didn’t believe in the goodness of people, neither you nor your sister would be where you are today._

True, Mama hasn’t been half so warm with “Livie” before, but now she is—and that has to mean something. Sély wants to believe it means something. So she sends up a quick prayer to the Warden and decides that she will trust to the gods… for now.

* * *

Four days on, Sély is not sure her faith has been rewarded.

For one thing, the sleeping arrangements proved to be quite different than any of them had expected. In the time between Sélysette’s letter and the girls’ arrival, it seems Mama has created a guest chamber… out of a room less than half the size of the one Livy and Sély have always shared. Its carpet has seen better days, with knotted fringe and faded florals; its narrow bed huddles in one corner, under bedclothes long on frill and short on heat retention (or so Gogoha tells it). The window is narrower still, and by no means of a height for Lalafell convenience; even from the bed one can’t see much more than bits of foliage and trunk, looking quite disconnected from the earth. There’s a rickety chair and a spindly table, and a mirror barely big enough to show one’s whole face at a time.

Mama had apologized profusely for the looks of the place, saying she had put it together rather at the last moment, “though of course I know that’s no excuse. But I thought I ought to have something ready for you, dear; I was so sure you’d want a space of your own. You must have been traveling at such close quarters for so long, just to come and see us—and goodness knows our Livie has never been the easiest roommate, even when she and Sély were still at home!” A tittering laugh. “In all honesty though, Mademoiselle Goha: if there is the least little thing you want for your comfort, you’ve only to say the word.”

And Gogoha, Twelve bless her, had simply smiled and shaken her head. “Oh no, Madame Farouche, this will do beautifully. Thank you so much for thinking of it.” So there that went.

For another thing, if Livorette was half mad by bell three on the first day, she has now sunk into a quiet, bewildered stew of paranoia. She still believes that Mama’s newfound affection is in no way sincere, but Mama is making this very hard to prove by fussing over her at every turn.

(“Did you sleep well, my child?” she asks every morning. Gives her eldest second helpings at every meal, whether they’re eaten or no. Sends her off to bed each night with a kiss on the forehead and a reminder that “if you want me for anything, dear, you know Mama is only a little way down the hall- don’t worry a bit about waking me up!” The general effect is somewhat cloying, even to Sély’s mind.)

This and the bedroom business would have been quite bad enough—both she and Gogo find it difficult to sleep without each other, and Sély is getting secondhand fatigue from her sister’s unhappy tossing and turning in the other bed. (It has developed a creak or twenty, not having been used in so long.) But what is worse, for all that Mama’s every other word seems to be “Livie dear,” “my child,” or some other endearment, she is remarkably resistant to every one of her eldest’s hints at the auroch in the room. Indeed she seems blithely, vehemently unaware of the proverbial beast—leaving Livorette with naught to do but spin her mental wheels and privately rant into her pillow.

Papa seems well, at least. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the moment he laid eyes on his girls, but somehow Sély feels his warmth is just a bit more genuine than that of his wife—which is troubling, to say the least. It is also troubling that he, so far, is the only parent to have credited not only Gogoha but Sély herself for Livorette’s safe return. And that he is the only parent to acknowledge that all three of them have been through some… well, to soften her sister’s phrase, some excrement. 

He notices when both wine and spiced cider make Livy nervous, and successfully convinces Mama that it is not quite right to press either upon her. When he spots Sély at her pre-dawn lance drills, he produces a selection of practice dummies so quickly that she’s half convinced he summoned them from some other dimension—and makes sure Mama doesn’t go near the back windows til Sély is safely back inside. As for Gogoha, he seems to like her all the more as he gets to know her. This afternoon they even took a turn about the garden, and seemed to have quite the animated conversation.

“I mentioned my being an alchemist, and your dad just lit up,” Gogoha explains as they are dressing for dinner. “He’s really interested in the subject, at least as it pertains to herbalism. Wants to make a medicinal plot in the garden. He asked all kinds of questions about what I thought would be most useful—it was sweet.”

“Did you tell him belladonna would be just the thing for Mama’s eyes?” Livorette grouses, then adds, “I know, I _know_, Sély. Don’t say it.”

Sélysette sighs. “I wasn’t going to. In fact, I was going to ask Gogoha if she was able to tell Papa of your engagement.”

At that, Gogoha’s eyes narrow just a bit. “It really was uncanny the way your mother came out just as I said, ‘Monsieur Farouche, there is something I must speak to you about.’”

“There! You see!” Livy seethes. “She knows we’re together, and she doesn’t want us talking about it to her _or_ Papa. She wants to break us up.”

“Well, she can’t,” Gogoha tells her firmly. “It’ll take a lot more than some passive-aggressive machinations to make me so much as think of leaving you. And furthermore I’ve had enough of this beating around the bush—we’re telling them tonight. You and I, together, over dessert. Okay?”

“…Okay.” Livorette’s voice has gone a bit tight and watery, and Sély turns back toward the windowpane she’s using as an extra mirror. Dimly reflected against the dusk, she can see Gogoha pull her sister down for a brief kiss.

It will be all right. It will. _Warden, make it so._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yerselves, me lads an' lasses, h- no I know it's mostly lasses, I do. But brace yerselves at any rate.


	13. Impetuous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down to dinner we go, and into Livorette's point of view once again.

The atmosphere in the dining room that evening is so thick that a mere knife would not suffice to cut through it—Livorette thinks her axe might barely be enough. Mama leads what passes for conversation, chattering on as gaily as a whole tree’s worth of birds; Gogo gracefully replies where she can, as does Sély. But there is rather a dearth of remarks directed at Livy, save simpering comments about her posture, sugary queries about her appetite, or lack thereof, and the like. It’s the return to basic form that Livy has been dreading all along, and she can hardly tell whether to feel disappointment or a kind of dull triumph at the vindication.

Orobon stew and chanterelle sauté make up the main course; Livy manages roughly ten bites of the former and practically inhales the latter. Usually she is not one to complain that a fish tastes “fishy,” but the meat in that stew leaves a salty, metallic film on her tongue which she finds unendurable… either that, or she’s accidentally bitten the unfortunate muscle in her haste to clear her palate.

“Careful there, Livie, eating so fast is liable to make one choke,” Mama coos, ladling a second serving of sauté into the empty space where Livy’s first one had been. “Though I am pleased you like these so well! I shall have to make them more often.”

Livorette manages half a smile at the suggestion. “More often” might well mean “every night til the chanterelles run out.” But what the hells—they do have a nice flavor all their own, and it’s a rather pleasant way to enjoy butter and salt besides.

She has difficulty resisting the urge to check that her lilybell hairpin is quite secure in its place. She’s hardly taken it off all through this visit, even to sleep or bathe; tonight, though, she needs the strength it gives her more than ever. The strength Gogoha gives her, through it. As Sélysette helps to clear away the dinner dishes and bring out dessert, Livy glances at her darling, at the black oldrose seated just atop the purple tips of her white, white hair. Gogo meets her gaze and gives her a short, bracing nod.

“I thought we’d try something special tonight,” Mama says, with eyes all twinkling as she pours coffee into each of their cups. “Kingcakes! Now I know they look simple enough, but they’re fiddlier to get right than one might think. I do hope they’ve come out well.”

At this moment, Papa surprises them all by chiming in out of nowhere. “Oh, I recall now. Mam'zelle Gogoha, you had something you wished to speak of earlier, did you not?”

“I did! Thank you for reminding me,” Gogo answers him. Smiles her prettiest smile. “Although, truthfully, it is not only I—rather, Livorette and I together. We have an announcement.”

“An announcement?” Papa raises his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Livy starts to say, only to find that her throat is unexpectedly dry; she coughs. “Er, yes. We meant to make it the day we arrived, but the moment kept getting away from us. Still, since we’re all here—”

“My, this sounds serious!” Mama laughs. “Rather heavy for dessert, don’t you think? Might this announcement of yours wait just a bit longer? These cakes really must be eaten fresh, you know, if one is to taste them at their best-”

“Mama, please! This is important.” Livy can feel herself starting to sweat, but by gods she will not back down.

“Oh, very well…” Mama raises placating hands. “Only don’t scowl so, Livie dear. You’ll give yourself indigestion later. And don’t interrupt.”

The cheek, the nerve, the bloody _gall_\- oh, the true Cyprienne colors are showing at last. Livorette grits her teeth. “I beg your pardon.”

“And please un-tense your jaw, dear, goodness! You’ll hurt yourself.” This in a voice of syrupy concern.

Gogoha squeezes her hand under the table. This helps. “…Yes, Mama.”

“Thank you, dear. Now then, Livie… and Mademoiselle Goha,” Mama oozes, stirring sugar and cream into her coffee cup. “What is this so-urgent announcement you have for us?”

Gogoha looks on the point of a retort, but she stops herself. Sighs. Then gets to her feet, standing on the seat of her chair, and begins.

“All right, look. I had planned a whole speech. A rather nice one, too. I was going to thank you both for your hospitality, and talk about what an honor it was to meet you, and about my abiding appreciation of both your daughters’ friendship. But now I… now… Now I am _distracted.”_ She fixes Mama with a penetrating stare.

“I wonder, Madame Farouche… what do you see when you look at Livorette? I think I know. I think you see a girl, not a woman, and a badly behaved girl at that. A girl to be chastised and corrected and smothered, and never allowed the dignity of an adult.

“But shall I tell you what I see? I see compassion. Vibrance. I see a steadfast, kind-hearted woman who does not deserve the treatment she has been receiving—this evening or any other. I see the woman I love, and the woman I have asked for her hand in marriage. Yes,” she adds, for Mama is gaping like a fish with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth, “I have asked her, though I suppose tradition would dictate that we had come here much sooner in order to obtain parental blessing. But, well… perhaps you have heard that we adventurers are impetuous creatures. And I am, if nothing else, an inveterate adventurer.”

“And I,” Livorette jumps in, though her voice is breaking and her eyes are starting to swim with tears of gratitude and love, “when I look at Gogoha, I… I see the woman who stood by me from the moment we met. I see her patience, and her humor, and her strength in all kinds of adversity. I see the woman who joined my sister in a tireless search for me when I was lost, and the woman from whom I never wish to be parted again. So…” She swallows. “I have accepted her proposal. That’s our announcement, Papa. We’re engaged.”

In the ensuing stunned silence, Sélysette speaks up. “There are some who say ‘tis better to ask forgiveness than permission, but I don’t believe either are necessary here. But we all wanted you to know how things stand.”

Papa recovers first. “Then my dear girls, let me congratulate you! What wonderful tidings, Cyprienne, our eldest girl is to be married. Come here, the both of you, and let an old man shake his daughters’ hands.”

_“No.” _Mama has retrieved her voice. “No, wait just one moment. There must be some order here.” She sets down her cup, her hand shaking so that some of the coffee slops out onto the saucer. “Sélysette Claudine Farouche, do you mean to tell me you knew of this? All of this? And you did not think to send a word of warning?”

Sély shrugs, coolly. “It wasn’t my news to tell, Mama. I did not wish to be rude.”

“None of your cheek now.” Mama lets out a long, hissing sigh. “Well, I suppose I might have expected this. Frankly, it was the likeliest possibility. When your children run away from home, there are only a few alternatives—either they come home engaged, or killed, or they simply vanish and never come home at all. One hears of it all the time.

“But that is _not_ to say,” and she raises a trembling finger, “that I will take this lightly. Indeed, I have no trouble telling you that I take it extremely ill. Sélysette, Alidor, out with you both. I must speak to these two alone.”

Neither Sélysette nor Papa move a muscle.

“Oh, _fine_, stay if you must.”

Sély crosses her arms. “I must. And shall.”

“Cyprienne, be reasonable,” Papa appeals. “It might be much worse. What is so terrible about—”

“About which, Alidor? I hardly know where to begin. You might as well know,” she whips round to Gogoha again, “that my daughter is quite the little liar. She has been convinced since the age of sixteen that she is some kind of seer of the past, and bolsters her own illusions by prying into the lives of all and sundry to gain information for her ‘visions.’ Perhaps she might have impressed you with her performances, but the truth is disappointingly mundane: this is a girl who, faulty manners aside, simply cannot be trusted to leave well enough alone. I have tried and tried to help her see the error of her ways, but she will not. _That_ is the kind of person you wish to marry.

“And _you_—” She turns to Livorette. “I know not what you have told your petite paramour here. Doubtless she is determined not to believe a word I say; like attracts like, after all. But now I shall tell you what _I _see. I see my own petulant child hand in hand with an unscrupulous rogue, whose pretty words are but camouflage for her selfish intent, who had no thought whatsoever of even letting me know my children lived were it not for the single moral instinct of the younger one to bring you back. I see my daughter announcing her plans to marry this, this _adventuress_, of whom I know no more than her name, her face and a thin tissue of fabrications about her background. An ill-thought-out scheme, but a scheme nonetheless, and I tell you I won’t have it. If you’ve come here for a dowry, my pretty maids, you shan’t find one. Wed if you will, but know that you do so with no help from this house!”

By the end of her speech, Mama’s voice has risen to almost a shout. The glass in the chandelier is faintly tinkling with the force of it. Silence rings through the room.

“…So, just to be clear.” Gogoha’s tone is entirely devoid of deference now. “You mean to say you don’t approve of our marriage?”

Sélysette tilts her head in mock thought. “Yes, I believe that was the gist of it.”

“If that is quite all,” Mama begins again, angrily, but she gets no further than this—because Papa is rising to his feet.

“Girls,” he says, “you are excused from the table. I wish to speak to my wife, alone.” 


	14. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we take a very slight detour through Sély's head on the way back upstairs.

Sélysette really does do a hundred strokes of the hairbrush when she undoes her hair for the night.

She’s always liked the repetition of it, the soothing feeling of the brush going from scalp to ends. And the steps beforehand- the relief of removing the pins, of disentwining the strands of her braids. Then she takes the brush and sits down at the window, pulls it through again and again, letting all thought drain from her mind except that of the next number in the cycle.

Fifty strokes on one side, fifty on the other. Never mind who said what awful things today. Never mind that she still didn’t get done what she wanted to. Just the counting. _Nine…. ten…. eleven…. twelve…._

And when she’s finished, she loves the way her hair lies in a smooth sheath over her shoulders. Flutters like a veil as she moves. When she was little she used to try to keep it that way, tried so hard not to disturb its newfound calm. Just climbed into the bed, carefully sat down, and held her tresses gently against her shoulders to lie back upon. Like a second, smaller blanket.

Livorette never had the patience to do the full hundred, even when her hair was long enough for the purpose. She used to complain that it was a waste of decent time and energy. She would rather be reading, or dancing, or almost anything else.

“I could do it for you,” Sély would offer, and Livy would shake her head.

“You take long enough at your own hair, Sély-fret. If you did mine too, you’d never get any sleep.”

“It doesn’t have to be the whole hundred. Just half… Please, Livy, I promise I don’t mind, and it’s fun!”

And sometimes, for reasons of her own, Livy would give in. “All right… just for tonight.”

She would sit on the floor beside her bed, and Sély would happily get up behind her with the brush. “Three… four… five…”

“I can count, Sély.”

“You’ll make me lose my place!” Sély would complain. “Now I have to start over.”

But sooner or later it would be done, and by the end of it Livy would be yawning.

“There,” Sély would say softly. “All finished.”

“Good. Now will you go to bed?”

“Of course.” Sély would slip to the floor, put the brush in its place on the vanity, and turn down her bedclothes to get in. “Good night, Livy.”

Deep yawn, or sigh, from the other bed. “Good night, Sély-pet.”

As they leave the dining room this night, Sély thinks many things. Among them: the thought that perhaps two hundred strokes would not be enough to distract her now. 

* * *

By silent agreement, the three of them head straight back upstairs. The instant the bedroom door shuts, Livorette sinks onto her bed with an expression Sély cannot quite place. Her eyes are fixed on some point in the air far beyond anything immediately visible. Gogoha climbs up to sit as close beside her as she can get without climbing into Livy's lap. Whether this is to spare Sély's presence or to take reasonable precautions while still providing contact, Sély does not know.

The silence is perilously near absolute, but Sély has not the faintest idea what any of them could possibly say. After a minute or three of waiting, for want of a better thought, she decides she might as well be comfortable and begins her bedtime routine. Off with tonight's gown, carefully hung over her chair. Shoes lined up beside her pack. Accessories into their proper pockets. Out with the nightdress, and on with it. 

Through all of this, Livorette has hardly moved an ilm. She sits there staring at her invisible point, seeing nothing else. Gogoha sits right with her, close as can be: her head rests against Livy's side, her shoulder fits into the curve of Livy's waist. She seems quite calm about the whole situation, except that Sély can see a hint of strain between her eyes. Truly, it's amazing she doesn't look more bothered- for all that she held her ground in the face of Mama's tirade, for all that she was able to airily quip when it ended, Sély finds herself still trying to sort how much of it was true composure on Gogoha's part and how much was bravado. 

As she settles at the vanity, she watches the other two in the mirror over her shoulder. How many pins, Sély wonders, can she remove before someone speaks? Or will she get them all out? 

At the nineteenth pin, Livorette finally cracks. "I'm... I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick.

"For what?" Gogoha gently returns.

"I- I sh-" Livy swallows. "I shouldn't have brought you here. Not to hear that." Gogoha makes a soft sound like "pfft," but Livy presses on: "I mean it. I knew what she was like... it was a mistake. I could have dealt with this on my own. You shouldn't have had to-"

"But I didn't have to. I wanted to." Gogoha wraps an arm around Livy's back. "And you did warn me."

Livy is shaking her head now. "No one can really be warned. Not well enough. I'm- I'm sorry- I know it sounds so stupid, but I am." 

Forget the pins. Sélysette turns around, and her sister's shoulders have begun to shake. Livy curls forward over her lap, one hand stabbed into the pink of her hair, though no sounds of weeping can be heard. If Sély had just glanced in from the outside, she might have thought laughter as likely as tears to explain the motions. Gogoha has shifted accordingly to the side again, holding Livy's other hand tight between her own.

Hells with it- Sély figures she could use getting and giving some comfort herself. She crosses to the bed, the unpinning forgotten, and scoots up on Livy's other side. 

"You know, Livy," she says, "that Mama can bluster as much as she likes, but she can't touch us any further than that. You do know that, don't you?"

Livorette nods miserably into her palm. "Yes..." Pink tufts are trapped between her clenching fingers. "And yet here was I, still somehow hoping that for once she wouldn't be completely horrible. Hoping like a complete fool."

Gogoha kisses Livy's fingertips. "Only a fool in love."

"A fool who, nevertheless, gets to say she told us so." Sély puts her arm around them both. "Even if she secretly hoped she was wrong." 


	15. What's Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Papa realizes, at long last, the truth about a lot of things.

Alidor Farouche has always been a patient man. Has cultivated the trait as carefully as his beloved flowers. A wise man knows that passion has its place, and thus is not easily provoked; he had always thought this philosophy served him well.

Tonight he has been proven wrong.

His three (already, he is thinking of Mam'zelle Gogoha as the third) girls do not need to be excused twice. Indeed, they leave their seats so swiftly and silently that they might have rehearsed their exit: his eldest led by her intended, his youngest following them both. The dining room door closes after them with a quiet click. Alidor notes the fact with some surprise. Even after a scene like that, Sélysette takes care with such things. He wishes it were for a better reason.

The reason, of course, is still in her place at table. Her back is straight, her eyes stone-hard, her mouth folded into a thin line. Before her on the saucer sits her coffee cup, the puddle around it left unmopped in a testament to her loss of temper.

He has seen this, at least, from her before—the post-outburst sulk. If left unchecked, it can last for a full day at minimum; once, in the first year of their marriage, she kept it up for an entire week. Alidor’s usual response has been to wait it out, but tonight that will not do.

“Well, well,” he says levelly. “Would you care to explain yourself, wife of mine? Or have you worn out your tongue already?”

His query is initially met with stony silence. Then- “I suppose you’re terribly disappointed in me,” Cyprienne says, in a voice like a bug flattened underfoot. 

“Not only in you,” he corrects her, “but in myself, for not seeing the truth sooner. I dare not speculate how long this has been going on—but I am certain that it has been far too long.”

His wife sighs, briefly stirring the ends of her fringe. “And what, pray tell, do you mean by ‘this?‘”

“The contempt. The disdain. Whatever unholy stew of bad blood that led to the towering, unwarranted fury you unleashed on our own child this night, the way you spoke of her to her face and to our guest—and the way you spoke to Mam’zelle Gogoha in almost the same breath. What _happened_, Cyprienne? How could it have come to this? The woman I married would never have dreamed such venomous words—”

She snaps her head toward him at that, her curls swinging out in semicircles with the motion. “Oh, what rubbish. If that’s what you think of _the woman you married, _then I hate to disillusion you, but she doesn’t exist.”

But Alidor can see the tears threatening to start in her eyes, before she turns stiffly away again.

“Maybe so. No matter. What does matter is that this state of affairs cannot continue. At this rate you shall be lucky if Livorette ever speaks to you again.”

Cyprienne sniffs. “The other way about, I rather think. She defies all sense and reason, gallivants off to the ends of the earth, then deigns to come back on the proverbial arm of a stranger one can scarcely see without a telescope and expects—what? That all will be forgiven and forgotten?”

He lets that question hang unanswered for several long seconds.

“I hope you remember, Alidor, that she did run off in the dead of night-”

“Yes, without a word,” he finishes wearily. “But for the first time I begin to understand why.”

She scoffs. “Oh _do _you? How do you mean to do that? Gods know you were perfectly content all these years to trust the girls’ upbringing to me, nary a question asked. You don’t know the worst of your children. Though I will admit that of Sélysette, at least, there is not so much to know. Or there was not, before she left. She has picked up sly remarks and impertinence somewhere along the way.” Her voice turns thoughtful, underneath the bitterness. “I shall have to see what can be done to make her put them down again.”

“She is not a dog, Cyprienne.” Alidor stares at his wife in growing dismay. “This is how you think of them? Truly? And more than that, you imagine that either Sélysette or her sister will stay to be treated thus? You talk of sense and reason, and yet you demonstrate neither the one nor the other. For a woman who sets such store by propriety, your behavior tonight was the most disgraceful display I have ever witnessed.

“You are right,” he adds, “I do not know what the worst of my children may be. But I hope I know something of the best of them. And whatever else they may have done, they are good girls who should be able to expect better… from both of us.”

He stands. Makes for the door.

“Where are you going?” The question comes sharply at his back.

“Upstairs.” And before she can ask why— “To see what has been wrought. To offer comfort, if I may… to know the worst.”

* * *

In the hallway, Alidor pauses to listen. No sound from the sitting room, but he peers in just to be certain. Indeed, not a sign of the girls there.

He climbs the stairs with perhaps too heavy a tread; the fourth stair groans alarmingly loudly, rather than making its usual mumbled protest. Arriving at the upper floor, he takes a moment to collect himself before making his way down the corridor.

As he approaches the girls’ bedroom, he can hear a strange susurration. Ah yes. Whispers. A positive flurry of whispering. He reaches the door and it flies open before he can so much as reach out to knock.

Sélysette stands there bristling for an instant, then recognizes him. “Oh, it’s Papa.” She looks back over her shoulder, pauses, then steps back to allow him room. “Come in.”

“Thank you, Sélysette.” He makes his way carefully inside.

It takes Alidor a moment to realize where exactly Livorette is: in a heap on her bed, all but invisible beneath her coverlet. The top of her short-cropped head just barely shows at one end, where Mam’zelle Gogoha is seated. He does not like to stare, but he cannot help being struck by her expression: soft, tender, protective. Every tiny shift of his daughter’s form is met with an according, answering movement in her betrothed, as if they were linked on some level beyond what the eye can see. When she looks up at him, he has to shake himself a little.

“I don’t suppose you’ve come to offer apologies on Madame’s behalf,” she says.

“No,” he admits. “Only on my own. I believe they are long overdue.”

“Papa, you didn’t know,” Sélysette protests.

He shakes his head. “But I should have known. Mayhap if I had, you girls could have made your way out to the world openly, instead of having to steal it.”

There is a wet sound from under the coverlet. A hand emerges, searching, and Mam’zelle Gogoha takes it in both of hers.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “Perhaps you should have. But what’s done is done, and what’s next falls to us.”

Sélysette sits on her own bed, patting the place beside her. The invitation is clear, but he still hesitates to accept it.

“If there is aught I can do to begin to make amends,” he says at last, “I shall do all in my power and more. It will not change the past. But I hope at least it will make a better future.”

In the ensuing pause, he is met with wide-eyed stares.

Livorette sits up with the coverlet around her shoulders, adding her own red-rimmed eyes to the group. Her lip trembles a little, and he braces himself for tears—only to be surprised when she gives a watery laugh.

“What have I said?” Alidor asks, bewildered.

This earns him another laugh. “Spoken like a Scion, Papa.”

He blinks. _Like a what?_ “I… I see.”

But he does not, and he is sure it is writ plain upon his face. Still, Livorette is laughing, and Sélysette as well, and even Mam’zelle Gogoha begins to chuckle. He sits on the chair between the two beds, looking from one to the other of his mirthful girls, and finds himself smiling.

It has been a long, dark evening. But, perhaps, not so long a night… and if Alidor has aught to do with it, the morning will be brighter. He will do whatever he must to atone.


	16. Tête-à-Tête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, for somewhat of a finale, we return to Gogoha's POV.

Gogoha awakens to the faintest of knocks on the bedroom door.

It is… very early in the morning. Very early indeed. Everyone’s asleep, of course- the sun is barely beginning to show the tips of its rays. Livorette’s cheeks are still streaked with the remains of a few tears, but her brow is free of furrow and her lips half smiling. Sélysette is curled on her side in the opposite bed, facing across the gap, her braids unpinned but otherwise intact. Last night had ended in a long session of friendly chat between the girls and their Papa—Gogo thinks he will make a fine in-law, after all—before they finally bade each other sleep well and settled down.

And now this knock. Gogo carefully slips out of bed and pads over to open the door.

“Good morning,” Madame Farouche says, soft as a dandelion seed landing.

“Good morning,” Gogoha returns, guardedly. 

Madame Farouche tsks. “Oh, there’s no need to look like that. I only wish to talk with you.” When Gogoha remains in the doorway, unmoving, she sighs. “I am _trying_ to humble myself. I felt that I should at least beg your pardon for my harsh words of last night.” 

“Go on.” Gogoha folds her arms. 

“And wake the others? I assure you, Mademoiselle, I am not so hard-hearted as all that.” 

A disgustingly fair point, or it would be if Livorette did not possess the ability to sleep through a stampede of mammoths. Still, Sély is a lighter sleeper, and there is always the off chance that Liv might be too fatigued to rest as deeply as she usually does. Gogoha shakes her head, irritated. “Oh, all right. Wait a moment, will you?”

She closes the door and goes for her pack, which Monsieur Farouche had been kind enough to fetch from that awful excuse of a spare room. She emerges with her dressing gown on and her shoes in hand. “Let’s go downstairs, then.” 

“Yes,” Madame agrees. “I’ve made up a fire in the sitting room, and a bit of tea and toast.” 

Gogoha immediately resolves not to ingest a single drop or crumb.

The sitting room is shadowy, its curtains drawn, its lamps unlit. Its sole illumination is the orange glow of the fireplace. Gogoha is obliged to concentrate on her steps across the thick Hannish wool carpet, lest she trip as her feet sink into the pile.

They do not speak again until they are seated before the hearth, facing each other across the coffee table: Gogoha perched in an armchair, Madame on the settee. Despite the fire, the air is still somewhat cold. But this is the reason Gogoha has her shoes, and the reason she now puts them on; she does not wish to curl up cozily with her feet tucked into her nightdress. She might need to move quickly.

Madame Farouche pours the tea, steam rising in the firelight. Its scent is not one that Gogoha recognizes, although this might be because of the past moons she has spent with Livorette’s ever-present carline brews. The only thing she can tell for certain is that this one is also floral. Beside the teapot stand, there is a plate resting under a domed metal cover that likely conceals the promised toast.

“This tea is my own special blend,” Madame explains. “I like to experiment with the art every now and then, when I can get the ingredients. It’s a little light for a morning tea, but I thought—what better to show my contrition, than to share something like this?”

What better indeed. Gogoha eyes the cup warily. “I see.”

“This time I was able to get quite a few varieties of dried flowers,” Madame goes on, as though quite unconscious of Gogoha’s trepidation. “There are orange blossoms, jasmine, Shroud cherry- even a few petals from my husband’s own roses. And then, of course, I like to make it sweeter by adding a bit of Thavnairian acacia honey just after it finishes boiling. Some would say it overpowers the other flavors, but I confess—”

Gogoha clears her throat. “Apologies, Madame Farouche. You were speaking of them.”

Madame pauses over the teapot. “Ah… yes. Of course.” She returns the teapot to its place on the stand. “Toast?” Her hand hovers over the dish cover.

“No, thank you. My appetite is still asleep.”

“Very well.” Madame withdraws her hand and settles back. Drops her gaze to her teacup. “As I said before, I wish to apologize for losing my temper. It was unbecoming of a hostess or a lady. I most heartily regret that it has taken me this long to clear my head. But now that I have done so, I should like to make it up to you… if you will permit it.”

_Make it up, hm?_ Gogoha thinks. She clears her throat again. “I may permit it. What did you have in mind?”

Madame smiles faintly, takes a sip of tea, then begins. “It is this way. Between my husband’s words to me and my own consideration, I realize that my daughters may be quite unwilling to make any visits home for the foreseeable future. Now that they have had a taste of life outside the Twelveswood, it stands to reason that they would prefer… adventure… over their former existence. Livorette particularly seems to have taken to it—unless I miss my guess.”

“No, you’re right,” Gogoha admits. “It’s a tough road, but day after day she meets it with a smile. Her sister’s no slouch, either; she works like a champion to keep her skills sharp. They’re both resourceful and resilient, and kind above all else. They couldn’t be better adventurers if they’d been born to it.”

“…High praise, no doubt,” Madame replies, though displeasure shows around her eyes. “I have endeavored to instill a sense of diligence in them both, and dignity, among other things. It is good to hear that some of my lessons bore fruit.” 

_Dignity. _The word sends images flashing across Gogoha’s mind’s eye—Liv covered in morbol bile, cheerfully belting out tavern songs; Sély dragoon-jumping into trees, laughing and shrieking that she can still smell the filth from twenty malms high. _Ah yes. Dignity._ “You’re welcome,” she manages, fighting down a snicker.

If Madame notices the stifled mirth, she does not comment. “Yes,” she says, “it appears that despite my missteps, I have still done some right by my girls, if they are all that you say. I suppose I must trust your judgment on the matter. Then, too, I own that you have seen more of the world than I, your tender years notwithstanding.”

The sun must be farther up now, for birdsong reaches Gogoha’s ears, even through the curtained windows. Her love will not want to wake up alone. “Respectfully, Madame—where are you going with this?”

A dry chuckle. “I beg your pardon again, Mademoiselle. I shall come to the point. You are resolved, then, to marry my Livorette?”

_Here we go_. “I am,” she replies steadily.

“I see.” Madame Farouche pauses. “I wonder, Mademoiselle, whether you are quite ready for such a thing. You are both so young, after all.”

“Not so young.”

“At a mere four-and-twenty—two years my daughter’s senior? I would call that rather early for anyone to think of marriage.” One of Madame’s curls threatens to dip into her tea; she brushes it gracefully to the side.

“I would not.”

Madame ignores this. “And of course, there is the question of how the pair of you will live once you are wed. I understand that a life of… adventure… is not all exciting rescues and jingling purses. There must be times when hardly a coin crosses your palm, must there not? Yet one must eat, somehow.”

“One does eat, as it happens.” Gogoha sits up straighter. Her hands are chilly, firelight or no, but she will not touch the tea even for warmth. “We adventurers have a guild precisely for this reason. Someone always needs help, even if it is merely an afternoon’s chores; sometimes the pay is actually food itself. At any rate we manage rather well.”

“I see,” Madame replies, her lips briefly flattening into a thin line. “And you would be content, living this way? Hand to mouth, as it were…? But I can spy the yes rising to your lips. Consider it said. To the point, then.”

She slips a hand into the pocket of her gown. There is a distinct metallic ring.

“No,” Gogoha says immediately.

Madame tuts. “Presumptive, my dear. I know you did not come for a dowry, or my blessing. But I would nonetheless offer you some repayment for the safe return of my daughters…” Gogoha folds her arms; Madame raises a hand. “Please, Mademoiselle, allow me to finish. For the return of my daughters, and for your consent to leave my family in peace, I would offer you rich reward. Say- ten thousand gil.”

The audacity. “No,” Gogoha repeats. “I refuse.”

“Are you certain?” Madame looks infuriatingly smug. “It would be quite the simple job. Merely collect your things and be gone—vanish into the sunrise, as it were—and you are ten thousand gil the better. I doubt your guild often affords you such earnings.” At Gogoha’s incredulous silence, she adds, “No? I can double the prize, if you like. Twenty thousand.” And at the continued silence, “A hard bargain, Mademoiselle. Forty, then, but that is my final proposal; our coffers are not _limitless_, after all.”

Oh, that is it. Gogoha takes a breath.

“No shouting, please,” Madame says airily. “Just your answer.”

“Didn’t intend to,” Gogoha growls. “And my answer, Madame, is this: how dare you.”

“Excuse me?”

“How _dare _you,” Gogoha spits. “You think you can buy my silence? You think you can pay me to break Livorette’s heart? You think I would abandon the love of my life for _coin?”_

“I b-” Madame starts, but Gogoha is having none of it.

“You beg my pardon, do you. You beg my pardon. You sit here with your pretty manners and your pretty skirts and your apologies not worth a half-onze of chocobo shite, and you beg pardon for wanting to bribe me to swive off whence I came. To leave my betrothed and my soon-to-be sister at your tender mercies. I’ll give you my answer, all right: you can take every coin of that purse in your pocket and throw it to the pits of the seventh hell. You want to beg my pardon, Madame? Then _beg._”

By the end of this speech, which surprises even its speaker on multiple levels, Gogoha has slid to the floor. Though the coffee table comes to just below her chin, she does not care; she stares daggers at Madame Farouche, who sits motionless on the settee with an expression of utter disbelief.

“I am going back upstairs now,” Gogo announces softly. “I am going to pack our things. And then, Madame, we are leaving—Livorette, Sélysette, and I, together. And if you dare try to stop us, you do not want to know what havoc I will personally bring down upon your head. Good day to you.”

She marches out of the sitting room without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said 17 chapters and I meant 17 chapters, but i am way too tired to add what i want to add onto the ultimate one this night. Rest assured though: it is coming.


	17. In Closing: Upwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sort of epilogue, in the form of a letter from our Sélysette.

_8th Sun, Third Umbral Moon_  
_The Mizzenmast_  
_Limsa Lominsa, Vylbrand_

_Dear Papa,_

Firstly, I hope this letter finds you well- and that it finds only you, eluding the reach of outside (Mama’s) eyes. I have made sure to address the envelope accordingly. After this, ‘tis all up to the ingenuity of the moogle post.

Secondly, I feel I must apologize once again for the untimely end of our visit. I had hoped we could stay the whole fortnight as planned, but circumstances forced my hand… or rather, Gogoha’s. She has not told us the precise nature of what transpired—I gather only that she was grievously insulted. It is her tale to tell, of course; yet still I make apologies on all of our behalf. I shall try to make up for it in future, somehow.

Thirdly: the date has been set! My sister and her beloved are to be wed on the twenty-second sun of this month, the very first day of summer. Well, the first evening of summer, for the ceremony is to begin at six o’clock—I expect the sunset will be lovely, if a bit blocked by the surrounding Twelveswood. I wrote out the invitations myself. I confess I am rather pleased with the flourishes on yours! It should be enclosed along with this letter, if it has not fallen out on the way.

There will be many people in attendance, perhaps more than you will expect. We have tried to limit the guest list to only the brides’ closest friends. This means, of course, that there will be upwards of twoscore persons packed into the Sanctum—including the two of us! But you must not be daunted, Papa, for I shall be with you all the time and introduce you to everyone as best I am able.

Fourthly: we are all doing well as may be, Twelve willing. No one has fallen ill, and if our sleep times are irregular, at least we are sleeping. Livorette chose her wedding costume in the blink of an eye. However, she is now quite beside herself trying to compose her vows. She will accept no help from either Gogoha or myself, but sits at her desk with pot after pot of carline tea for bells on end. For her part Gogoha seems a trifle calmer, but I think this may be a front, for as I write this she is steadily beating a path into the carpet with her vigorous pacing before the fireplace. I can only suppose that she may be in the throes of vigorous mental composition even now. As for her wedding attire, I have not seen it, but her taste is excellent and she will undoubtedly look magnificent.

Fifthly, and lastly: though it pains me to say it, I do not think Mama will wish to attend. She seemed quite sour about the prospect of Gogoha as a daughter-in-law, even before the mysterious incident that inspired our too-hasty departure. By extension, therefore, she may be quite cross if she discovers that you have received our invitation, let alone accepted it. Say and do whatever you must to get out to the city on the day. I shall meet you at the pier at half past four, and we will travel to the Sanctum together.

—Ah, I must go; I am wanted. Take care, Papa! I shall write again before the wedding, if time permits. 

_Love from_

_Yr affectionate daughter_

_ Sélysette_

Livorette, across the room, is still beckoning impatiently with the hand on her lap. Sély will not keep her waiting much longer. She wipes the pen, sand-sprinkles the page, and caps the inkpot. Then she leaves the letter to dry and goes to see what her sister so urgently wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding guest lists do grow so fast- especially when adventurers are getting married. Travel long enough and you amass quite the collection of friends. And this is what happens when you try to keep the list _small_ for the Warrior of Light's big day!
> 
> This piece was more or less inspired by my entry for day 11 of FFWrite 2019, but since I wrote that one before I had gotten through the whole plot of the Visit Home I decided that this would make for a better epilogue. It also serves as a (belated) answer to day 6, for which the prompt was First Steps, and for which I could not come up with anything til now. So I leave our girls here, poised to take their first steps toward the future... 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! :)


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